On Turning Pro

I pretty much turned pro for this winter, mind you no abbra kadabra and VOILA! a big P on my chest just, the ongoing grind of trying to get a consortium of parties to pay for my climbing. Mind you this is no one-way street, any entity who provides material or fiscal support is then beset with a steady stream of seasoned advise, varied exposure for their product and above all a bona fide character to assure overwhelming visibility. Whether or not said benefactors desire such visibility is beyond my comprehension, even as a veterinarian I strive to treat sick and injured animals, should they get well or not is up to them.

There is always only so much each of us can do with regards to any transaction, personal or professional. On one torrid summer afternoon I was making love to a young woman her suntanned body ripe in my rather broad hands. Despite vigorous love-making we both became trapped in that nether-world of coital distraction, for all the sweat-wetted skin, intriguing scents and outstanding topography neither of us would orgasm. Lapsed into a space-time continuum of carnal rapture I displayed ample athletic endurance but perhaps less sensuous prowess than the situation called for, so I settled upon a plan, in breathy terms suggesting she resume egress on her hands and knees.

Naked women have had a habit of obeying such directives, she promptly went “doggy” with not inconsiderable zeal wherein I dutifully assumed my reciprocal posture. In light of my most privileged a if not extraordinary view I now felt suitably inspired going straight to work, although who could not wish for such a posting. Before long despite restrictive latex I was snort-rearing like the most amorous of stallions, better to just let go I always say.

Upon consulting with my panting paramour she informed me she had in fact not climaxed, but I had done all I could for her just the, I fell asleep.

And so it goes everyone is responsible for their own orgasm although some people construct whole lives upon the ensuing disappointment. It takes no soothsayer to see that the one-way trolley-ride of life offers little by way of second chances, seize the day or in any event the afternoon. In the past there had been the refrain of next year or next season even next girlfriend then the world began to change as did I, next year might bring radically differing realities and that’s putting it mildly.

Snow is falling again here, last week's tropical depression a distant memory although the bouldering at Rotary was a welcome reprieve from the monotony of the gym. Life develops patterns, you see the pattern as the norm then the pattern shifts, what constituted monotony you now sorely miss. I am getting better at seeing all this coming, I slow the fight down somewhat, now see that left-hook coming, whether I get out of the way or not is another matter.

But I digress, is life about making love or climbing boots, ropes, ice-tools? Both I suppose, summer gives way to sultry autumn, then one day the clouds sink down, wind howls over the scoured bluff at home, snow falls. Winter here is a love it or leave it affair, you either embrace the flying snow or it maddens you, November through April is a long stretch to hand-wring over awaiting the arrival of a few sparse tulips. So I sortie forth at the first sign of trouble, meet the threat as it were, even an inkling of ice at Loch Vale is enough to get me packed up puffing up the hard trail, and those first few sticks in nascent autumn ice, heaven.

Now there is doom, gloom, a nation ruined by the false idolatry of Wal-Mart Fundamentalism, a populace reeling from the crystal methamphetamine of Jesus n' Guns and wanting to burn gay folks at the stake. Times are tight, my bipolar employer whom I thought I was getting on famously with announced abruptly in November there would be no more work, she would no longer afford me. Suddenly a sponsor-provided rope was no longer just a rope, not having to pay for a rope meant money freed up for Lacrosse tuition for my son, a varsity swim-suit for my daughter.

And then there IS the climbing. New gear is, well, inspirational! No point heading up today looking like a bag-man, but new boots and a new rope, now THAT'S booty worth toting eh lads? Any excuse for a day on the hill, any excuse will do...

Photo: Rob Fullerton.